


The Soul Wears Out Its Breast

by NorroenDyrd



Series: All That Glitters [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bigotry & Prejudice, Cheesy romance, Despair, Desperation, F/M, Fights, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Guilt, Healing, Heartache, Love Confessions, Mild Smut, Nightmares, Reconciliation, Self-Destruction, Self-Hatred, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-16 20:56:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5840707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having been spared by the Dragonborn, Ralis Sedarys tries and fails to come to terms with what he has done while under Azhidal's control. After struggling with his own guilty conscience, he eventually feels that he cannot take it any longer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

'Hmmm, let's see...'  
  
Master Neloth spread out a blank scroll and, squinting down at it intently, dipped his quill in ink.  
  
As he hovered the perfectly sharpened tip (Talvas had done his job properly for once) over the crinkled, yellowish surface, a small black drop came splashing down, leaving a cloud-shaped spot on the parchment. The wizard curled his lips in disgust and flicked his hand casually through the air, snapping his fingers.  
  
At his command, the unfolded scroll whizzed into the air and burst into soft, heatless, purplish flames. The billowing, silken tongues of magical fire twisted round the parchment sheet, each of their slow, hungry licks reducing its size - till finally, the splattered scroll was consumed entirely, melting away into thin air, without as much as a speck of ash falling down on Master Neloth's desk.  
  
With a satisfied nod, the wizard took out another scroll and, this time undisturbed by the antics of his insolent leaky quill, set to scribbling down columns of numbers and complex, triple-decker formulas.  
  
'Now then...' he muttered to himself, as his quill danced wildly over the scroll, underlining, circling, scratching out, 'If we take the distance from Tel Mythryn to Raven Rock docks... Adding the delay caused by those Redoran ruffians flirting with the girl and her Nord guard dog - which would have been inevitable... Then, we have to calculate how long it must have taken her to arrive in Skyrim - accounting for factors such as storms, foggy weather... and ship mutiny, just in case... Now, to add the time spent on travelling from Eastmarch to the Reach - by those deplorable barbaric methods, naturally...'  
  
Here, the wizard had to pause for a contemptuous 'Bah!'  
  
'Walking! Driving carriages! The modern generation has completely and utterly forgotten how to teleport properly!'  
  
Shaking his head from side to side to mourn the degradation of the youngsters' intellect, Master Neloth went back to his formulas.  
  
'Any distractions on the way must also be taken into consideration - and that girl is bound to have gotten distracted at some point; the foolish laymer can't get it into her head that my research comes before hers! Then, the way back to Windhelm... From Windhelm to Raven Rock... From Raven Rock to Tel Mithryn... Aha!'  
  
He dashed down a few last numbers, in bold, hasty, slanting handwriting, underlined them with a wavy squiggle - and called out impatiently, swerving his head in search of his pseudo-competent apprentice,  
  
'Talvas! Talvas! Come here, will you?!'  
  
Yes, Master Neloth?' the younger Dunmer responded breathlessly, scuttling up to his mentor - and hastily gulping down the last remnants of his scrib jerky sandwich.  
  
'According to my calculations, the girl should bring me the Briar heart, and her memories, any day now,' the wizard declared, with a disapproving glance at the bread crumbs on the front of Talvas' robes. Did that foolish child never learn?! What if one of those bits of food got into a potion (which there were many, brewing and bubbling and hissing in phials of all shapes and sizes all around him) and ruined some delicate experiment (and they were all very, very delicate)?!  
  
'So you had better go mine more heart stones for me. Come on - shoo, shoo!' Master Neloth wrinkled his nose in an irritated grimace. 'What are you still doing here? We have work to do! Oh, and I almost forgot - find me a subject, will you? You can grab a reaver from the wilderness; they breed like kwama, and nobody would miss them. I do appreciate healthy specimen, but I suppose any will do'.  
  
'A s-subject?' Talvas echoed. 'A reaver? He-healthy specimen? Oh... Oh my...'  
  
By the Three, this was not good. Not good at all. Even after that horrid haunting caused by Talvas' unfortunate, half-undead, insane predecessor, Master Neloth was still bent on continuing his heart stone experiments. On - on sentient beings!  
  
All this time, he had been hoping, praying that this fussing about with notes and graphs and gods knew what else; this poring over glowing, pulsing heart stones through double, triple tiers of strong lenses; this idea of procuring a Briar heart to study the magic involved in creating it and cross-reference it with heart stone implantation - that all of this was merely about learning how to better raise enthralled creatures out of the ash. But, as it turned out, he had been wrong...  
  
'M-master Neloth?' he mumbled after a small pause, swallowing a lump in his throat and picking at a loose thread on his robe's collar. 'Are - are you quite sure you need to continue working on this project? I mean - given the risks...'  
  
'Nonsense!' the wizard huffed, going back to his papers. 'Granted, I did make a slight miscalculation with my last subject - but this time, after the girl has brought me a piece of genuine, ancient Reach lore, I am sure I will succeed! Now, for the last time: I do believe the floor is free of any paralyzing runes - so tear your feet away from it, and get moving!'  
  
With a deep, mournful sigh, Talvas turned away from his mentor and shuffled off, his back hunched and his arms dangling down limply. It was no use trying to talk Master Neloth out of whatever complex and inevitably dangerous research occupied him at the moment. All a lesser mer like himself could do was grab a pick and set out in search of a fresh heart stone deposit - and (Talvas made sure he was down the levitation shaft, and safely out of earshot, before he let out a squeaky, half-stifled whimper)... and a subject.    
  
He had this sneaking suspicion, which crawled through his chest like a worm crawls through an apple, gnawing at his heart and leaving a trail of piercing cold in its wake; a feeling that, should he fail to bring Master Neloth anyone ready to lie down on the operation table and be carved up, the wizard would simply perform the carving on him, his apprentice, just as he had done with the poor woman that had come before him. So he really (really!) had to find... someone.  
  
But who? The very thought of sauntering into a reaver camp, and trying to take one of those outlaws hostage, made Talvas' flesh crawl. But what other alternative did he have? Surely, no-one would volunteer? Who would want to have their heart removed and replaced with a stone?  
  
  
***  
  
  
_'Ralis? Ralis?'_  
  
The voice is urgent, feverish, trembling with the echo of suppressed tears. It calls out to him, bursting through the darkness that has shrouded his world - like a thin, faint ray of golden light.  
  
'Ralis? Please, please, stay with me!'  
  
He grasps at the voice, at this guiding light; he hangs on desperately, as it keeps him from drowning in the icy waters of oblivion - as it pulls him up, out of the darkness and into the waking world.  
  
Finally, with a tremendous gasp, he emerges, and throws his eyes wide open. For a few moments, he sits with his back leaning against the barrow's stone wall, his head swimming - and then it dawns on him that, apart from that giddy sensation of regaining his consciousness, his mind is absolutely clear. The voice that has been pounding inside his skull for so long is gone; the fire devouring his temples has been extinguished; for the first time in an eternity, he can breathe freely again.  
  
She smiles at him. An Altmeri woman with emerald-green eyes and a curiously shaped scar on her cheek; kneeling next to him with her fingers alight with golden healing magic. He - he has seen her before. In another life; another existence, plagued by constant pain and whispers slithering within his mind. Aredhel. Her name is Aredhel - she was the one that made the whispers recede; was she also the one that made them go away for good?  
  
'Oh, Ralis, I thought I lost you,' she breathes, reaching out towards him.  
  
But before she can touch him, another voice echoes through the empty barrow; loud and sharp as a flashing blade.  
  
'My Thane, please - please don't. This murdering scum does not deserve your kindness'.  
  
A tall, dark-haired Nord woman towers over him, her face a thundercloud, her fingers clasped tightly round the hilt of a sword.  
  
'Lydia - there is no need to use such harsh words,' the Altmer replies softly. 'I have witnessed possessions before - he could not stop himself from doing what Azhidal ordered him to do'.  
  
'That is no excuse for killing all those people!' Lydia snaps. 'I say we dole out justice for his crimes, and end his miserable life here and now!'  
  
What - what are they talking about? What crimes? Why has that Nord called him a murderer? He is an honest (most of the time) treasure hunter; he has never lifted a weapon unless in self-defense! He has not killed anyone!  
  
But - but the whispers... The voice... The spirit in the barrow - he told him what to do. He told him to bring him mortals, as many mortals as possible; he needed their energy to live again. So - so he hired miners, and mercenaries, and more miners; and every time they went down to dig for lost relics, or hunt down restless draugr, he would black out... And then, people would turn up dead. Did that mean he killed them? Took their lives by his own hands, smashing their heads in with his pickaxe, leaving deep, sticky footprints in the pools of their blood? Or did he set loose the undead, so they could tear them apart, while he watched them squirming and thrashing, his eyes dead and expressionless? He - he hoped not... But... But...  
  
'Dear gods...' he groans, twisting his hair in tight, painful coils round his fingers. 'What have I done... What have I done...'  
  
'You have slaughtered several innocent people,' Lydia says grimly, each of her words sinking into his heart like a jagged, poison-coated dagger. 'And deprived them of the afterlife by sacrificing their souls to that mad old dragon priest... And I thought you were a mere con mer! A gold-digger, planning to seduce my Thane and rob her blind! By Shor!' he sees her knuckles go white as she grips her sword even tighter - four pale blurs floating before his eyes in the wet, burning fog that clouds his vision. 'It would surely have been better for you if you were one...'  
  
As her angry tirade fades away into silence, he feels the entire world come crumbling down - and the debris piles up on top of his frail, helpless, pathetic self, making it so painfully hard to breathe...  
  
'I didn't mean to do this,' he whispers, barely able to move his lips, tears streaming down his cheeks. 'I didn't mean for this to happen... I was merely hired to excavate the tomb - but when I came here, I started hearing voices... Driving, pounding... I - I...' something tears apart deep inside his chest, and he bends forward, swaying slightly and clutching his head. 'Please - you have to believe me!'  
  
'I believe you,' Aredhel says, cupping her hand round his unshaven chin and forcing him to look into her eyes.  
  
As he stares into them, his haggard, wild face reflected in their widened pupils, he sees pain - deep, wounding pain, perhaps even greater than his.  
  
With a burning jolt, he remembers what she said to him when they talked last - before they started making love in his tent, and Lydia interrupted them, and his mind was completely consumed by darkness. She - she has feelings for him. Or rather, she used to have feelings for him... For now she must be so utterly disappointed, having learned who... what he really is. A murderer. A dragon priest's thrall. A monster. Nobody could possibly love a monster...  
  
'I believe that the real Ralis would not have touched a hair on those miners' heads,' Aredhel goes on, her gaze still interlocked with his. 'And so - I will spare your life'.  
  
His heart soars for a moment - but then, folds its wings and dives back into icy darkness. For all his delves into the bowels of graves and crypts, he is still afraid of death. But will life, which Aredhel, in her kindness, has so generously granted him, be much of an alternative? What kind of life could await a miserable wretch like him?  
  
In the meanwhile, somewhere in another world, Lydia growls under her breath, 'This is a very unwise choice, my Thane... But I am sworn to honour it...'  
  
The Altmer ignores her and goes on speaking, springing lightly to her feet. Oh sweet Azura, she is so graceful... As he watches her movements, swift, smooth, like the flow of clear water in a spring, a familiar urge begins to burn within him; while his mind is being torn apart by the black, glistening, blood-smeared claws of self-hatred, his body lives according to its own rules, dictated by his Dunmer blood.  
  
He jerks his head, forcing himself to look away. How - how dare he desire her, after what happened? She is now forever out of his reach; he shall remain crawling in the dust, crushed by the weight of his own guilt; while she will walk enveloped in the light of the stars...  
  
Aredhel is still talking to him - and the jagged crack running beneath the surface of her voice makes him glance back at her out of the corner of his eye.  
  
'But... But I am afraid this is where we part ways...' she says, lowering her eyes and suppressing a sigh. 'It is not for me to scorn you or judge you - but still... You have to agree that it is much to take in,' her lips twitch in a wry smile. 'It's not every day that one finds out that the mer one has kissed was... was not...'  
  
She bites into her lips and finishes abruptly,  
  
'Be well, Ralis Sedarys. I do wish our little venture had ended differently. Come, Lydia - I believe we have to chart netch migration routes'.  
  
Throwing her head up high, without another word, another glance back at him, she walks out of the barrow, her housecarl following her like a loyal hound. When the metal door rattles shut behind them, cutting off all light, all fresh air, all hope, he is left alone in the suffocating emptiness... But not for long.  
  
Soon, a figure rises out of the dust in front of him, and then another, and another, and another still. The miners that he killed. Blank, sunken eyes. Twisted, bloated, purplish-grey faces. Blood running in dark splatters down the front of their soiled shirts, out of the corners of their mouths, out of their noses, their ears, their eyes. And behind their backs, are the mercenaries. Dented armour. Broken helmets, with shards of metal bashed right into their owners' eyes. Limp, dangling limbs, missing whole chunks of flesh, with the bone gleaming a pale white through the mangled red web of torn sinews.  
  
They have been struck down by the draugr - the draugr that he awakened, following the orders of the great and powerful Azhidal, chanting the words that the dark whisper hissed into his ear. And some - some have different markings warping their bodies. Here and there, in the crowd of shambling corpses, he notices a dark flash - a small hole in the temple of some miner or mercenary. A crack left in the skull after the abrupt, violent thrust of a pickaxe. That - that it his own doing. Plain, painfully plain evidence of his murders.  
  
They surround him, in a silent, unmoving wall, their darkened eyes never leaving his face. Quivering, drenched in sweat, unable to move a muscle, he watches them shift slightly closer with every passing minute. Are - are they going to exact their revenge? To end his life like he ended theirs? His heart thrashes madly inside his chest, pinning itself on his ribs and bleeding, bleeding, till his entire body grows cold and lifeless... Drained by the anticipation of what is to come.  
  
And then, one of the miners, a young woman with short dark hair, tears apart her parched lips, and begins to speak, in a hollow, monotonous voice. Reciting the letter that Aredhel found in her satchel when she inspected the corpses. A message to her parents that she never got to send.  
  
**I understand your worries, but there's really nothing that should frighten you that much...  
** We might run into some trouble, but I've handled trouble before.  
  
The one who hired us, Ralis, is a bit of an odd one.  
I'm keeping my eye on him, though, so don't add that to your fretting.  
We'll be fine.  
We'll all be fine.  
  
At this point, he feels that he can bear it no longer.  
  
'Stop!' he screams, whirling to his feet. 'Stop! It - it wasn't me that killed you! I would never have done such a thing! I was possessed! She explained it all so well! Did you hear what she said? Did you hear Aredhel?'  
  
  
***  
  
  
'Aredhel...' Ralis Sedarys groaned in his sleep, tossing his head from side to side and clawing at the frayed edges of his makeshift bedroll.  
  
He had headed to Raven Rock after his former partner bade him farewell - but did not stay there for long. For one thing, as most of Aredhel's investments had been spent on luring more victims to the barrow, he could not sit around at the Retching Netch and drown his sorrows in drink forever. Soon enough, there came a point when he ran out of gold to pay for his lodging and countless bottles of Sadri's special sujamma - so he had to take off.  
  
Another reason why he had found himself unable to settle within the Bulwark were the people.  
  
For hour after interminable hour, he would sit hunched in his seat, staring at the heady, sparkling liquid that splashed in his glass (if he narrowed his eyes a little, provided that he had reached the right state of drunkenness, he could almost see Aredhel's reflection in his sujamma - giving him a gentle, reassuring smile... a token of her forgiveness... But the illusion never lasted long). And as the slightly blurred world spun round and round him, his bleary eyes began to tell him that they saw scowls of disgust on the Netch regulars' faces. They were all glaring at him, all judging and condemning him for what he had done; even that sell-sword in the corner, the one that never took off his helmet - even he seemed to wear a perpetual snarl whenever Ralis was around.  
  
So he had to leave - he had to escape from the townsfolk's revolted glances; from fingers pointing at him behind his back; from the rustling sounds that he thought were whispers, calling him by his true and proper name. Murderer.  
  
He fled to the wilderness and had lived there ever since; surviving on stringy, ash-tainted roots and raw hopper legs; moving from place to place like a tumbleweed, sleeping under rocks, and inside hollow, charred trees, and sometimes, when the Three smiled upon him, in abandoned reaver camps, which looked as if they had been cleared by some adventurer - perhaps even Aredhel.  
  
The thought that she had, mayhap, been to one of the campsites where he found shelter; that she (backed up, no doubt, by her faithful Lydia) had rained fireballs on the heads of the startled, disoriented reavers, sending them running for the hills... Ah, how it warmed his heart - making him part his lips in a faint ghost of a smile; making him look upon the lopsided tents and the trampled-up campfire with a tender glow in his bruised, aching eyes. Sometimes, he would glance around for signs of her presence, imagining that this singed spot on one of the bedrolls could have come from her destruction magic - or that this faded snatch of blue cloth stuck to a thorn on a nearby trama root could well have been torn from her robe in the scuffle... But very soon, even this pale shadow of happiness would dissolve, and demons would descend upon him.  
  
Yes, he had managed to stay away from flesh-and-blood men and mer - but he was still not alone in the ashen wasteland. Every night, when he sank into uneasy sleep, the same nightmare would return to plague him, again and again. A memory of Aredhel sparing his life in the barrow, followed by a ghastly vision of his victims closing in on him. And every morning, as the first pale-pink rays of the sun came bursting through the grey, smoky haze, he would wake up with every bone in his body burning in pain, and with sticky, wet trails of sweat running along his sides and down his back. Alone. Helpless. Loathing himself with the blazing fury of the Red Mountain, which kept scattering flakes of ash over the barren coast.  
  
Today was no different. Soon after muttering Aredhel's name, Ralis jolted awake and, for a few moments, lay still, his chest rising and falling steeply, his back aching. The nightmare had released him from its venomous claws, and a new day had begun. A day of wandering pointlessly in the wilderness, of skulking, small and miserable, in his guilt's dark shadow. Sometimes he wondered to himself if it wouldn't be better to just find a tall cliff somewhere on the farther, snow-clad side of the island, and leap off it, letting the waves close their foamy embrace around him, and wash his mind blissfully blank...  
  
No. Wretched though his life was, he dreaded what came after it. He was almost certain that, once he left the boundaries of the mortal plane, he would meet the souls of those he had killed, and his nightmare would come true.  
  
He did not want to die; he - he just wanted the pain to go away. He wanted to stop feeling this terrible guilt, to stop hating himself, to stop yearning for Aredhel and wailing in despair at the thought that she would never return... that a creature, a beast like him did not deserve her love. He wanted this scorching fire to stop eating away at his heart - and his heart, to stop thumping and shrinking and twisting into knots and whatever else it was doing. If there was only a way to make his heart go still without letting his whole body die with it... If there was only a way...  
  
Perhaps he could go to mainland and seek out a vampire that would turn him? Oh, gods no - how could he even consider it! He already had one curse hanging over his head; he did not want another! The thought of the blood lust that came with Molag Bal's gift was too much for him to bear. He had done more than enough preying on the innocents.  
  
No - neither death nor undeath was what he asked for...  
  
Ralis' depressed musings were interrupted by a loud, monotonous sound that made his stomach contract - as it had far too many dark memories connected with it. A pickaxe, chipping away at the stone.  
  
With a small grunt, he lifted himself from his pile of threadbare rags and mangled beast pelts, which he had picked up at the last reaver camp and dragged together to sleep on, and made a few unsteady steps to where the sound was coming from. A little way to the north of the crag where he had made camp, there was a dark crimson gash running across the greyish soil, like a festering wound in the Dunmeri flesh. Lodged within its depths, there were streaks of pulsing ruby-red light, with gnarled round stones, large as a mortal's heart, lodged within it. He vaguely remembered lingering over that gash before finding a place to sleep - staring down at the gleaming red veins and those odd-looking stones, mesmerized by the shimmering, blood-tinted glow...  
  
Now, a stranger had arrived on the scene - another Dunmer; gods, it really felt as if Ralis had not seen his kin in ages. It was a youngish mer in a mage's robe; with his ruffled hair and rounded eyes, he looked a little bit like a sea bird that had lost direction in the fog and hit against a rock. Completely oblivious of Ralis' presence, he was tearing violently into the crimson rock, trying to loosen one of the stones. The older Dunmer watched him indifferently for a while - and then, turned to leave him be. He had no desire to come into contact with the fellow; he knew where their conversation was going to lead - he would end up staring intently into his face, seeking signs of horror and repulsion, waiting for him to hurl an accusation into his face. No thank you. His memories were more than enough to keep him company.  
  
But just as Ralis was going to slink back into his crag, the ash behind the mage lad's back began to ripple, like the surface of a river that swells during a flood, raindrops plummeting down and leaving tiny pockmarks on its leaden waves. It swirled and rose higher and higher, moulding itself into the figure of a man, with long, disfigured limbs and bright embers flashing in places through the dull grey of his body. The young mage was still too preoccupied with his mining to notice the creature's presence - and before he knew it, the ash spawn raised his (or its?)  arms into the air and then, brought them down in a powerful blow, letting out a raspy, gurgling sound. The mage dropped to his knees, letting go of his pickaxe; the ash spawn clambered on top of him, clawing at his face, burning holes in his robes and scorching his skin.  
  
Hardly realizing what he was doing, Ralis whirled on the spot, raising a cloud of ash, and raced towards the crimson vein, tugging at his own pick, which he still kept strapped to his hip. He called it Hoarfrost; it was one-of-a-kind Nordic pickaxe that had served him well throughout his treasure-hunting career. He had been meaning to leave it behind, as no matter how furiously he wiped it with a rag soaked in sea water, he could still see traces of blood twisting along its side like prickly, dark-red trama roots - but he could not bring himself to part with it. Over the years, it had almost become part of him, and like one of those Black Marsh reptiles that are said to grow back their tails, he always turned back and retrieved it from wherever he had tossed it in frustration.  
  
And - and there was also the matter of Aredhel running her fingers along the pick's hilt one night at the dig, and asking him if it had a story behind it... 'I will tell you some day, partner,' he had told her, watching her golden hair gleam in the firelight. 'When we are celebrating the end of our venture, eh?' And she had agreed, with a smile - and had given the pick back to him, her fingers still enclosed round it. That - that was the first time their hands touched.  
  
And now, for all these foolishly sentimental reasons, Ralis had a weapon with which he could strike down the ashen creature that was attempting to strangle the squirming and kicking mage. With an incoherent war cry (something about summoning Boethiah to his side, if he deciphered his own words correctly), he leapt upon the heaving grey bulk and plummeted it with Hoarfrost, just as he had done back at the dig, till the ashen crust grew softer and began crumbling away under his frenzied blows.  
  
With a hoarse moan, the ash spawn fell back, large chunks of its body flaking off - and then, sank to the ground and folded itself into a tiny, harmless grey mound, like soil dug up by a mole.  
  
'Th-thank you,' the young mage choked, staggering to his feet and erasing the burn marks off his flesh with a tingling healing spell (thankfully, they were not too deep).  
  
Ralis jerked his shoulder, straining to figure out the way to use his voice properly.  
  
'Don't mention it'.  
  
'That ash spawn,' the fellow went on, shaking his head. 'I thought we got rid of them all, and yet they keep coming... Ah well. At least my Master would be happy to learn about it. He was complaining about running out of creatures to research'.  
  
Ralis made a small, stifled, groan-like noise; hearing someone speak after such a long lapse of solitude was making him feel really discomforted.  
  
The mage must have mistaken the sound for a show of interest, for he went on eagerly, going back to his little excavation,  
  
'My Master is the great Neloth of Tel Mithryn! He is a sorcerer, powerful and infinitely wise... and awfully cranky and whimsical sometimes... most of the time... kinda always...'  
  
Thus, the fellow ended his panegyric in a confused cough and brought down his pickaxe with a loud 'Crack!'. At long last, the stone he was chipping at separated itself from the vein and rolled down into the ash.  
  
'Ah, there we go!' the mage sighed with relief as he picked the stone up, brushed off loose ash flakes with his sleeve and tucked it inside his satchel. 'Now I can almost rest assured that I won't be turned into a toadstool... Now, to find the other essential for the experiment...' he furrowed his forehead, his expression becoming childishly piteous.  
  
'Is there something I can help you with?' Ralis asked slowly, quite in spite of himself.  
  
The mage brushed him off.  
  
'Oh no, I don't think so... Unless you know someone willing to spend their entire life with this lovely little rock sewn into their chest instead of their heart...'  
  
Ralis started. In a sudden flash, the ashen colours around him seemed to suddenly grow brighter. This - this was it. This was what he needed. This was what would put an end to his suffering.  
  
'Actually,' he said, his lips parting in a dreamy smile. 'I think I do know someone...'


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of the quotations featured in the tomes of Dunmeri lore that Aredhel gives Rolff Stone-Fist are extracts from actual in-game books. The one at the very end of Rolff's POV, however, is a snippet from a fan fic, written by a good friend of mine (http://blueoakrogue.deviantart.com/). Used with permission!

  
Rolff Stone-Fist stretched his legs under the table and, folding his arms complacently on his stomach, watched Edda trot off to fetch him yet another refill. If there was one good thing about being the brother of the Jarl's Housecarl, it was being waited upon at the local tavern.   
  
If he poured together all the ale he had drunk in this place on credit, he would have himself a regular sea to swim in. And tonight, too, he had strolled inside without a single coin in his pocket and, plopping down into an empty seat, had called for a pint - which the innkeeper had immediately fetched, fussing around like a hen with her tail feathers on fire.  
  
Mmm, and what a mighty fine pint it had been, too... And the one that followed it had been even finer! Perhaps he should have a couple more, then head over to the slums to play his favourite game. Nothing like giving those filthy grey-skins the scare of their lives to mark a proper end of a good day. What should he do tonight, huh?   
  
He had heard that ugly harlot, the one working for the Shatter-Shields, say something about a whatchamacallit... A toohickey they used to talk to their ancestors. A shrine, was it? And the savages had the gut to call it the same word that normal people used when talking about the Divines! Bah! As though honouring Talos could be compared to some stupid elf crawling on his belly in front of his rotting grandmother!..  
  
Rolff snickered into his moustache. Oh, he had a plan for tonight, he sure did. He would go down to the Grey Quarter, and find one of those shrine things - and relieve himself on it! Hah! Wouldn't that be a great joke! He could just see those unnatural, inhuman grey faces of theirs, going all sour at the sight of him... Ohoho, he was so clever! Galmar had better watch out; one of these days, Jarl Ulfric would reward him, Rolff, for his wit and resourcefulness - and make him a Housecarl instead!  
  
'Tidings, Rolff. I thought I would find you here'.  
  
Waking abruptly from the sweet, sweet daydream of himself strutting about the Palace of the Kings and having the guards bow down to him, the drunk looked up from his table - and spat in disgust through his teeth. Think of the Daedra, as they say...   
  
There he was, thinking about them goddamn elves - and what do you know! One of them had up and showed up! The gall of those... creatures! It was about damn time Edda made her establishment a human-only place; if the pointy-ears wanted a drink, they could have it at that hole of a cornerclub they had right in the middle of their cesspit - and they were welcome to take the annoying little bard thing with them, too, so she would not foul up proper Nord songs with her damn elven voice!  
  
In the meanwhile, the twitch that had called out Rolff's name had come up right to where he sat - and even gave him a smile, curse her! She was not one of the grey-skins; she was from that other elven tribe, the one where everyone was a Thalmor. Tall, blonde and with her face and eyes the colour of a torchbug's belly. Ugh - what normal person would have skin like that? This colour was no better than the rocky-grey of the Dark Elves' faces.   
  
He might have seen her before around town - but he was not sure. All those non-humans looked the same to him - just like all skeevers or other beasties. That scar on her face did look kind of familiar... Ah, what did it matter, really? He had plenty of other things occupying his mind, leaving simply no room for concerns like whether or not he had seen this or that elf. His cunning plan for tonight, for instance. Now, that was much more important.  
  
The yellow-mug had her arms wrapped round a tall stack of thick, musty old books - which she set down in front of Rolff, blocking out all view of the inn. What had she gotten into that squashed head of hers?! What if Edda came along with his drink and he did not see her?! And she would have nowhere to set it down, either, because of all those blasted books!  
  
'Geroutta here!' Rolff barked, his face growing red. 'You are blocking my light! And air! And everything!'  
  
'Oh, I will leave you be, don't worry,' she said, with the same accursed smile. 'I just wanted to give you these'.  
  
'You wanted to give me a bunch of books?' the Nord asked, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.   
  
The more he glared at the spines of the dusty volumes, covered with faded gild and a whole net of tiny cracks left by age, - the less he liked them. After all, all of that tramp's kind were either Thalmor, or Thalmor spies. She was not wearing that evil black uniform of theirs - so she had to be working undercover... Going around, polluting the great old Nord city with her elven breath, offering books to people... Those mouldy old things were part of her conniving plot, no doubt - and Rolff lost no time in saying it out loud.  
  
'They have some kind of evil elf magic stuffed into them, right? You planning to kill me with them?'  
  
'Oh no, nothing like that,' the Thalmor spy chuckled. 'I just know that you... are not too fond of my kind. The mer in general, I mean - and the Dunmer especially. So I thought...'   
  
She had started speaking in a quiet, even-toned voice - but as she went on further and further, it grew louder, more vehement; it rushed into Rolff's ears like a mountain torrent, and flooded his mind till he had to shake his head like a wet dog. Damn those Thalmor and their cunning, honeyed words! He was not going to let her snake-like voice get into his head - by Shor, he wasn't!   
  
'I thought: perhaps your distrust and hostility comes from lack of knowledge? It is perfectly understandable; we are confused by all things unfamiliar to us, and oftentimes, instinctively afraid of them. You go out into the streets, and you bump into these strange people, with faces so unlike the ones you were accustomed to seeing while growing up in your Nord community. Of course, you would be naturally inclined to shun them. But if you were to learn more about who they are; about their wonderful, unique culture; about the legends and traditions that they cherish and pass on from generation to generation; about the mysterious land they left behind, harsh and dangerous, but also very beautiful, in its own way... If you were to open your eyes wider, you would see that these strangers are a proud, wise and noble people; a people that needs to be respected and treated the way you treat your fellow Nords...'   
  
She patted the book stack gently with her hand, her blasted smile growing broader than ever before.  
  
'I have collected a few volumes that I have on Dunmeri lore; here you will find a little about the Chimer and their exodus from their ancestral lands to a new realm past the mountain ridge; about the origins of the Tribunal worship and the Nerevarine prophecy; about the Great Houses and the custom of venerating the ancestors; about Morrowind's geography and rich, diverse wildlife; about the everyday life in the fateful days of the Blight; about the admirable efforts undertaken to abolish slavery; and quite a bit about a few other things that I can't name off the top of my head. I hope that you will enjoy reading these books, and that they will give you a better understanding of your neighbours. I have already been to the Snow Quarter and have left my collection of books on Skyrim at the cornerclub, so that the local Dunmer might take them and read them. And the next you meet, you will have so many exciting things to discuss about your two cultures!'  
  
Rolff's efforts to block out the Thalmor's voice had proved more or less successful; he had stopped registering what she was rambling about about half-way during her speech - and when she finally fell silent, he seized the opportunity to chase her off for good.  
  
Bending forward clumsily, he closed his thick fingers round the topmost volume; then, a lopsided, drunken smile distorting his face, he lifted the book into the air - and lurched forward, thrusting the heavy tome right into the Thalmor's face.  
  
His strike split the elf's lip, sending a tiny rivulet of blood streaming down her unnaturally sharp chin; and the force of the impact made her stagger a few steps backwards. Seeing that his adversary was disoriented, Rolff made a small (rather burp-like) sound of satisfaction and, tossing the first book aside, threw open the second one and, in a single swift grab, gathered up a bunch of pages into his fist and tore at them, as though he was pulling out weed in a kitchen garden. As, with a tremendous ripping noise, the crumpled sheets of paper separated themselves from the spine of the book, Rolff scattered them across the floor at the Thalmor's feet, where they settled, like dead leaves swept into a pile by the playful autumn wind. Having dealt with one tome, the drunk picked up the next - and then, another, and another... Till the inn's floor turned into a single, dirty-white snowdrift, crisscrossed by black ink markings like the tracks left behind by tiny forest birds - forming snatches of sentences, which, torn out of different books, different contexts, overlaid one another and mingled together like incoherent delirium.   
  
_Sotha Sil watched the initiates float one by one up to the oassom tree, taking a fruit or a flower from its high branches… Telvanni Councilors are represented by a 'Mouth', a trusted subordinate in residence at the Council Hall... What a wondrous love it is, to bind two souls in faith, chained completely together, with never a false word… Beat eggs, wickwheat, and scuttle in a large bowl. Slowly stir in crabmeat and bittergreen… The Ancestors are among us. They are never farther away than the Waiting Door… Marry me, Barenziah…_  
  
The Thalmor watched him in a kind of blank, dumb terror - which made him feel really full of himself. He knew how to stick it to those elves, that he did! He made a fine example for all sons of Skyrim - first, resisting that witch's charms, and then showing her what he thought of her evil books!  
  
And to make his triumph complete, after he ran out of paper to rip to shreds - the twitch burst out crying. Just like that; her eyes grew all small and puffed-up - and then set loose a whole stream of tears. She bawled her head off like a little girl who's lost her dolly, her shoulders twitching and a loud, choking sound tearing its way out of her throat. This had to be the most bloody hilarious thing Rolff had seen in his entire life! As the Thalmor's nose reddened, a tiny transparent droplet dangling off its tip, and her cheeks and the folds of skin below her eyes began to gleam with the thin, wet film left behind by tears - the drunk felt he could contain himself no longer, and joined her wails with a sound of his own; a hearty, rippling belly laugh, which grew louder and wilder together with the elf's sobs.  
  
Finally, the ruckus that the two of them raised became so loud that Edda came rushing in, her hair dangerously close to standing on end.  
  
'What do you think you're doing?!' she shrieked, giving the elf a shove in the shoulder to make her shut up. 'You are scaring the customers! Get out - both of you! This is not some Dark Elf den; this is a proper inn - and I will have no fit-throwing here! Now, Rolff, you may be Galmar's brother - but everything has its limits! And you, High Elf - who do you think you are, making a scene at my inn?! Ah, well - I do not care who started this mess; I want you both in the street, now! And clean up after yourselves, will you?'  
  
Leaning down, she gathered the scattered pages up into her arms and handed the huge, rustling heap to the Thalmor, who accepted it without a word, sniffing piteously and blinking the last tear drops off her moist, darkened eyelashes. Then, without further ado, the admirable innkeeper ushered both the elf and the Nord out into the cold, fuzzy-white arms of the winter evening - stretched out wide to welcome two tiny figures, which stumbled out onto the slippery stone steps, and gave a simultaneous, instinctive shudder when Candlehearth Hall's door shut behind them.  
  
Argh, curse that yellow-skinned tramp! It was her fault Rolff had been disgracefully kicked out of the inn - her fault entirely! And by Ysmir, she was bloody gonna pay for it!  
  
His face going red with anger, he lifted his fist for a blow - but was interrupted by the sound of soft, creaking footsteps, approaching them from the snowy murk. Soon enough, the hazy white veil fell back, revealing a kinswoman of Rolff's, clad from head to foot in gleaming armour of finest steel; she had billowing dark hair and grey eyes that flashed in alarm when she caught sight of the whimpering Thalmor.  
  
'My Thane!' she exclaimed, leaping up to the elf and wrapping her arms round her, book pages and all, like a mother soothing a child. 'Dear gods, you are bleeding! Let me give you a little help with that!'  
  
She tore herself away from the yellow-face and bent in two, gathering up some snow to press into a small icy lump, which would soothe the elf's torn lip. That was when she finally deigned to notice Rolff; the light in her eyes reflecting the metallic glint of her armour, she said hoarsely,  
  
'It was your doing, wasn't it? Praise the Divines we have a ship to catch - otherwise, I would have lingered a moment to run you through!.. Come on,' she turned back to the elf, rubbing her snowball into her lip, 'We have to get to the docks. Gjalund is running behind with his deliveries, so he said he would be casting off despite this weather. We'd better hurry if we want to get to Solstheim'.   
  
Supporting her dazed, meekly obedient 'Thane' beneath the elbow, the Nord woman led her off towards the docks - but not before giving one last farewell glare to Rolff.  
  
'I am not done with you yet. Those who hurt the Dragonborn have me to deal with'.  
  
Dragonborn? Rolff snorted in disbelief.  
  
They had heard rumours of the Dragonborn returning for a while now - and by Shor, did Jarl Ulfric want to see that legendary hero fighting the war at his side! - but no-one knew who exactly he, or she, was. But, of course, the Dragonborn had to be some mighty Nord warrior - not that sniveling excuse for a Thalmor spy!   
  
No, no - definitely not her. Either that feisty dark-haired lass was crazy, or Rolff had heard her wrong. Could be the drink going to his head... Yes, he had to clear his mind; stretch his legs. Now, where was that alley leading down into the Grey Quarter? He could still put that plan into action...  
  
As the two women were shuffling away from the inn, a few torn book pages had slipped out of the elf's infirm grasp; the piercing wind had sank its snowy claws into them and dragged them across the street, back to Candlehearth's threshold - and now they were flapping about, like a swarm of oversized pale moths, wrapping their wings round Rolff's boots.  
  
Grunting gruffly to himself, the Nord leaned down - just to brush those pesky pages away, nothing more; but before he knew it, he found himself lifting the handful of fluttering paper sheets up to his face and peering at the miniscule black letters, which trailed along line after line, huddled together like many rows of beads in a necklace...  
  
 _‘Seyda Neen._  
A tiny hamlet, smelling of fish-tar, salt water and bog. Muddy footprints down the single street that had been trampled over a hundred times that day, probably by their owner more than twice. Weathered, rotten planks creaking the same creak, a shop sign so bleached by sun and rain it bore nothing but pale, colourless shapes, but everyone knew everyone here, no need for a replacement…’.  
  
'Well, whadda ya know...' Rolff muttered, rubbing his forehead and shifting closer to the street fires to make out what came next. 'Whadda ya know...'  
  
That night, no ancestral shrines were desecrated, and the people of Windhelm's Grey Quarter finally - and quite unexpectedly - got a well-deserved share of proper, peaceful sleep. For Rolff Stone-Fist, the eternal trouble-maker that never missed a chance to hurl an insult into the Dark Elves' faces, was in no condition to make his traditional foray into the slums. And not because he was too drunk; he had never before been too drunk to harrass the grey-skins. No - he was too stunned by a sudden terrible discovery.  
  
He had started reading a Dark Elf story - and... and he kind of liked it.  
  
  
***  
  
  
'I am so ashamed of myself,' Aredhel said faintly, resting her chin in her hand and gazing out at sea.  
  
Despite all of Captain Gjalund's worries, the snowfall had stopped soon after the Northern Maiden left Windhelm docks, and the sky over their heads was now burning green and blue; the aurora shimmered and flowed like a celestial river, and the reflection of its billowing light danced in the Altmer's widened eyes, almost making their pupils invisible.  
  
'I am so very, very ashamed of myself... I've been going through... things these past few weeks - and when Rolff Stone-Fist tore apart the books I gave him... it... it was kind of the last straw... I felt something snap inside of me...' she swallowed loudly and shook her head. 'I just... completely lost it...'  
  
Knitting her eyebrows together, Lydia shifted closer to her Thane and gave her a gentle, sympathetic pat on the forearm.  
  
'It's all right. I know you have had a lot on your mind; you have not been the same since we came back to mainland. Perhaps now it is time to talk about it?'  
  
Aredhel passed her hand over her eyes.  
  
'I... I am not sure... It will make me sound like a whiny teenager...'  
  
Lydia strengthened her grip slightly.  
  
'It will not, my Thane,' she said, her voice quiet but firm. 'I have been watching you all this time - even though you try to look cheerful, I can sense the pain eating away at your heart. Carrying a weight like that inside of you, keeping it locked away - it can only do harm. And besides,' she smiled a small, fleeting smile, 'I am sworn to carry your burdens, aren't I?'  
  
Aredhel smiled back - but a fraction of a second later, her face clouded over again.  
  
'It's Ralis,' she breathed, clenching her fists - like someone in pain does, in order not to cry out loud. 'I... I can't stop thinking about him... Every time I walk through the streets of Dunmeri communities, I am haunted by the vision of his face, staring at me from the crowd. I - I have dreams of him... his voice... his touch... his breath, hot on my neck... And - and I keep going back to that horrible, horrible memory... Our parting at the barrow. I keep thinking that we shouldn't have left him behind like that. We should have taken him with us - let him atone for... for what Azhidal made him do'.  
  
Lydia's frown grew deeper, and she drew a few inches away from the Altmer.  
  
'That gold-digger still has your mind ensnared,' she said darkly. 'I thought the spell would have worn off by now. He is no match for you, my Thane; never has been. He is scum - a liar, a coward, and a murderer. You do him too much honour by letting him into your heart. He should be happy we let him live'.  
  
For a moment, Aredhel's eyes lit up with a bright green flame - which was definitely not the reflection of the aurora. It faded away just as abruptly as it flared up, and as it did, the Altmer let out a barely audible groan.  
  
'D-don't be like that,' she said, her voice failing her. 'You have always been so harsh towards him - can't you, at least for a moment, imagine what he is going through? Imagine what it must be like, awakening after months of delirium, only to realize that all this time, you have been serving an evil spirit; learning that you have blood on your hands, that you are guilty of crimes that you do not remember committing... You called him a coward - was that because he begged us to believe that he had had no idea what he was doing?'   
  
The green flash returned, with a renewed force; and this time, it lingered.  
  
'You know who the real coward is? Me,' Aredhel was breathing heavily through her nose, and Lydia could see the gleaming droplets gathering up over her lower eyelids again. 'I turned my back on him. I went away - because I thought that staying with him would hurt me. But this - this is hurting me more. Knowing that while I am frolicking about, deciphering ancient texts and brewing potions and handing out books to drunks and cutting out briar hearts for cranky old wizards - Ralis is suffering. I...' she faltered for a moment, and then blurted out, 'Before we head to Tel Mithryn with the heart, I want to check in him. I want to seek him out and make sure he is all right. Maybe offer my help - '  
  
Lydia reached out and closed her fingers round Aredhel's.  
  
'You are just like my old Ma,' she said softly. At this point in their long and rather unusual friendship, the Housecarl had already started forgetting the code she was sworn to follow, and at times, she would address her Thane is a most off-hand manner (not that Aredhel ever noticed that).  
  
'When I was a child and would stay outside, playing in the streets, some quarter of an hour longer than I was supposed to, she would make up a full-blown story about how I had been abducted by bandits or dragged off by wolves or gods know what else - and she would start believing it, too; and keep on believing it until I showed up on the doorstep, safe and sound, with a muddied frock and a couple of milk-teeth loosened from fighting with boys. You worry too much about that elf. We do not know for sure if he is as bad off as you are picturing him - for that, he'd need one mammoth a conscience, and I still doubt he has one. Why,' she gave her Thane a reassuring grin, 'I bet when we land on Solstheim, we will find him sipping sujamma at the Netch, right as rain...'  
  
  
***  
  
  
'Master Neloth! Master Neloth! I have found you a subject!'  
  
Squirming at the loud, shrill sound of his apprentice's over-excited voice, the wizard laid down the staff he had been carving for future enchanting, and turned towards the levitation shaft.  
  
Talvas had just landed on the top floor and was dancing on the spot like an eager pup; behind his back, there was another mer in what had apparently once been a set of leather armour; he was swaying slightly, still giddy from soaring up into the air, and glancing around with a look of mild, barely noticeable surprise.   
  
It offended Neloth somewhat; being fiercely proud of the new home he had grown for himself after the Red Year exodus, he always expected newcomers to gape in awe at the sloping ceiling of the great mushroom tower, at the intricate texture of its walls, and at its maze of round chambers, shrouded in mystical greenish murk. It was most impolite of that stranger, stumbling after Talvas as he did, his expression almost completely indifferent.   
  
But maybe that was because the boy had cast a calming spell on him? He would have had to, if the fellow was one of those uncouth ruffians, slinking about in the wilderness, rustling their way through in the empty halls of ancient ruins - like vermin. And he surely looked like he was one of that lot; there was a certain wild air about him.   
  
Quite a pretty picture he made... Drawn, angular face, crisscrossed by a whole web of lines, which seemed to have been clogged with a thick layer of ash; dim red eyes, sunken so deeply that they were barely visible in the black shadow of thick, overhanging eyebrows, knitted together in a frozen frown; wild, coarse stubble the colour of tangled wires in Dwemer ruins - and a messy heap of hair, ruffled up as if he had been through a lightning storm, and also shaded the same dark copper, save for a loose white strand, dangling before the fellow's eyes. And yes, that excuse for a chest piece he was wearing - Neloth had already caught sight of that; most disgraceful. It really looked as if he had been sleeping, and eating, and fighting, and tearing through thorny undergrowth, all in the same armour, for days on end. The flesh of his arms and legs that showed in between the cuirass, the bracers, and the boots, was covered in a gnarled layer of scabs and scratches, and splattered with dirt. A true creature of the wilderness if there ever was one.  
  
'How long before your spell wears off, Talvas?' the wizard asked sharply, approaching the apprentice and the subject with his hands clasped behind his back and his head cocked to one side. 'Soon, I'd imagine; you are not capable of magic that produces lasting effects. But no matter - I shall renew it myself. Wouldn't want this reaver attacking me'.  
  
'Uhm, Master Neloth...' Talvas mumbled, coughing sheepishly into his fist. 'He - he is not a reaver... At least, not to my knowledge'.  
  
At that moment, the stranger himself joined the conversation, his voice slow and scraping, like the sound of wheels of an overloaded guar cart, grinding against a stone-paved road.   
  
'Sera... I am not under a spell. I came of my own free will. I volunteered'.  
  
The wizard's eyes lit up.  
  
'Volunteered?' he echoed, clapping his hands together and rubbing them in excitement. 'That is most interesting! I do wonder why some utterly unscholarly riffraff like you would volunteer to take part in an delicate, complex experiment! '  
  
'Please don't mind,' Talvas whispered into the subject's ear. 'He is this rude to everyone'.  
  
The fellow jerked his shoulder to show that he did not care; in the meanwhile, Neloth went on,  
  
'Come! We can discuss your interest in heart stones while my steward is bathing you - which is a must, of course! I shall not abide making incisions in filthy flesh - what if it ruins my precious surgical instruments? Hmm, perhaps I should compile a questionnaire for you... That way, I will be able to do most of the talking...'  
  
'There is nothing to discuss,' the stranger cut him short. 'I just can't walk around with a bleeding heart any more'.


	3. Chapter 3

A red-haired Dunmer in leather armour? The one with a nose like a tern's beak? Sure, he's seen him. Moping about the Netch all day, always with a sujamma bottle clasped between his fingers - and with a dark, brooding cloud swirling over his head. Kind of hard not to spot.   
  
Actually - wait a moment... This fellow, he wasn't exactly red-haired. He had this silvery stripe running through his copper mane; it looked like he had started going grey before his time. Hardly surprising, given how crazed the poor wretch looked.   
  
Ah, judging by muthsera's expression, there is quite a story behind that edgy Dunmer... Well, he is not the one to pry - it is really none of his business. He is just giving an account of what he has seen - just as muthsera asked him.  
  
Has he talked to the fellow? Why, he believes he has! Only once, though - and, of course, the details are kind of blurred in his mind - he is hardly obliged to memorize every single conversation he had with every strange mer he has ever come across, now is he? Ah, what was that sound now? He does love the clink of gold. Muthsera is most generous...   
  
Wait - what is this? Hush now - muthsera needn't tremble so. Here is the coinpurse; all she has to do is close her pretty little fingers round it and put it back into her satchel. He may be an astute businessmer (and he believes he is, even if he does say so himself) - but he will never take advantage of a woman in distress. Now that his memory has been jogged, he will tell muthsera everything for free.  
  
That day, both of them were going about their usual business: the redhead was making himself familiar with yet another one of Sadri's special recipes - and he himself was sitting in his favourite corner, studying the crowd at the cornerclub... With the mines open again, there are so many new people coming and going - there is no knowing when he might find another patron for himself.   
  
Incidentally, is muthsera in need of a blade for hire? The wilds of Solstheim can be a dangerous place, especially for someone in her... fragile state - and, well, he hates to brag, but some people have called him the best swordsman in Morrowind. He will not charge muthsera for the first two weeks of his services - like he said, he does not take advantage of women... Unless they are throwing themselves into his arms. But in that case, everyone comes out the winner.  
  
Now, now - no need for damaging his scarf with that sword tip. He can see that muthsera already has a capable bodyguard - he can only hope that the worthy Nord maiden (so strong, so full of fire... he likes that in human women) is doing her utmost to protect the tender, delicate golden blossom that is her employer. Yes, yes, from now on he will be sticking to the point. Upon his word of honour.   
  
So, where was he? Ah, yes. He was doing his patron-scouting, when all of a sudden, the redhead wobbled up to him; quite a challenge it was, too, for he seemed hardly able to stand upright, let alone walk. Ah no, no, muthsera should not twist her lovely face into this worried frown. That fellow was neither sick, nor wounded. He was drunk, drunk as an Argonian fisherman on a hot summer day; this seemed to be his usual state, in fact. His eyes were almost lost in bloated, purple folds of skin, and his breath reeked of sujamma so much that you could very well get tipsy yourself from smelling it.  
  
So, the redhead approached him, the sellsword, in his corner, and, lurching forward so that the two almost embraced, slurred hoarsely,  
  
'Sell me your helmet'.  
  
He has to admit that this request rather took him by surprise. Though muthsera must know that he is usually as quick-witted as a nix on the hunt (ah, the valiant Nord need not look so unimpressed! 'tis the truth) - at the time, astonished as he was, he could not think of any adequate response other than repeating the question.  
  
'Sell you my helmet?'  
  
'Yes,' the redhead mumbled, gulping down unseen tears.   
  
'Here,' he reached out with his jerking, quivering fingers and dropped down a leather coinpurse (somewhat deflated, by sell-sword standards).   
  
'The very last of my money. All... All I have left after our exca... exca...' here, the redhead hiccupped a little and then sniffed loudly, taking some time before he could continue.  
  
'I - I need to con... conceal my face... I can't bear it any longer... The stares... The whispers... Everywhere I turn, everyone is judging me for what I did... I have to hide... Behind... Behind a mask... A good, im - impentrobbabble chitin mask...'  
  
He went on rambling along the same lines for about a quarter of an hour - and concluded by sinking heavily onto his knees in front of the sell-sword and repeating his plea.  
  
'Sera... Brother... Sell me your helmet... I beg you...'  
  
What did he reply to that? Why, he refused, of course!  
  
Granted, he appreciates the feel of a handful of septims against his skin almost as much as he appreciates the feel of a woman's soft, tender... What? Why is muthsera's admirable Nordic companion is giving him that disapproving glare? She herself has been granted plenty of tender softness by the gods - even the hard, cold outlines of her armour cannot conceal it. Now, now - again, no need for the sword-against-his-throat routine. Ah, but he does so love this fabled Nordic spirit. Makes things infinitely more interesting...  
  
A sleazy lecher? Him? Please... If the good Nord wishes to find sleazy lechers, she has to travel to Blacklight. Now, that is a proper Dunmeri city in every respect...  
  
Well, he shall no longer test muthsera's patience. As he was saying - he values gold, to be sure, but his helmet is not for sale. Just as the rest of his fine chitin armour, it was hand-crafted especially for him by one of the best smiths of this age. Nothing in the world would induce him to part with it - if someone were to toss his helmet into the fiery maw of the Red Mountain, he would leap in after it... and what a loss that would be to Morrowind, eh?  
  
So yes, he told the redhead to stop talking nonsense and to go and sleep it off - so the fellow hunched his shoulders, looking more than a little disappointed, and slinked back to his usual spot at the bar counter, taking his gold with him and scattering it in front of Sadri to pay for more sujamma.   
  
The next day, he was no longer there. Must have taken off and left Raven Rock - because, as far as he, the sell-sword, can tell, no-one has ever seen the strange mer since.  
  
  
***  
  
  
The conversation with the chitin-clad Dunmer at the Netch left Aredhel even more troubled than she was when the Northern Maiden was just approaching the coast of Solstheim. And all their further investigations at Raven Rock did little to put her mind at ease.   
  
As it turned out, the silver-tongued, faceless elf ('Best swordsman in Morrowind my aunt Helga! And what was that nonsense about my tender softness?' Lydia huffed contemptuously to herself, trying to get the sound of the mercenary's honeyed drawl out of her head) had been right. After failing to obtain a helmet for himself, Ralis seemed to have vanished into thin air. No-one in town, not even the local know-it-all of an innkeeper, or the guard captain, whose job it was to account for all comings and goings, could tell for certain where the lost, drunken mer with a greying mane of dark-red hair had staggered off to after he left the cornerclub.  
  
  
  
'I am sorry I couldn't be of more help,' Captain Veleth said. 'Believe me, I have been meaning to contact that Sedarys fellow myself. I am still working on an official record of his miners' deaths, with copies to be sent to their families - and I wanted him to make a statement. But every time one of my men approached him, he was either nowhere to be found, or too drunk to say anything coherent. And now he seems to have left for good. I don't know, maybe he sailed back to mainland?'  
  
He fell silent, and slid his hands behind his back, crumpling a small slip of paper between his fingers.  
  
He knew little of human customs - but he vaguely recollected that in the Empire, this day was revered as Heart's Day, a celebration in honour of all those in love. He had cut a little heart out of paper, and scribbled down a few words to Dreyla Alor - his Dreyla - telling her how much she meant to him. What with her father's over-protectiveness, they did not exactly have much time to spend with one another, so he used every chance he got to try and express his feelings, and a human holiday seemed as good an excuse as any.   
  
He was planning to give his message to Dreyla next time they met - but he was still unsure if he was doing everything right. After all, he was more used to carving his way through scores of shambling ash spawn, and yelling some sense into his good-for-nothing subordinates, than to talking about love.   
  
Bumping into Aredhel had seemed like a perfect opportunity to make sure that he would not mess things up. She was a scholar, that oddly friendly young Altmer; she knew the most unexpected things, like twenty ways to use a Daedra heart (he was pretty sure one of them involved some kind of soup), or what Khajiiti farmers usually had for breakfast, or how many ancestor moths there were left in the world, or what kinds of beads and feathers ancient Bosmer had been using to decorate their antler... She could tell him all there was to know about Heart's Day and what you were supposed to do to celebrate it.  
  
But now asking her did not seem like such a good idea. He had never seen her this out of sorts before - with her face puffed up and reddened; her hair dangling in front of her eyes in dirty, unkempt strands; and the usual bright, eager glow in her eyes extinguished. Sedarys clearly meant a lot to her - though it was kind of odd, him clearly not being the best that the Dunmeri race had to offer... Although, who was he to question Aredhel's affections, as he himself, an old, battle-scarred, world-weary soldier, had somehow managed to captivate the heart of his beautiful, precious Dreyla?  
  
'Thank you, Captain'.  
  
That was Lydia the Nord; the sound of her voice made Veleth's wandering thoughts huddle back together like guar in a corral.  
  
'We will be going now. Got to make a delivery out of town,' the housecarl gave the captain a curt nod to show that the conversation was over, and then nudged her charge gently, but meaningfully, in the shoulder, steering her towards the Bulwark.  
  
'Be cautious in the wilderness,' Veleth said as a farewell to the two women. And as they walked away from him, with Lydia in the lead, and her Thane dawdling behind her, he lowered his head, feeling the heart-shaped note scrape against his palms like the wings of a dead butterfly.   
  
So he had not merred up enough to bring up Heart's Day, after all. Oh, damn it all! Whatever would he do now, without Aredhel's advice?  
  
'For the last time, Father: I am going to buy supplies from Milore! I am sick and tired of your paranoia!'  
  
The door of the Alors' store creaked open and then slammed shut again, with a dry, sharp sound, like a hopper's leg snapping in two - and out marched Dreyla, an angry little ashen whirlwind sweeping through the streets, her eyes flaring up like blood-red embers. Still petrified by the infuriating realization of his helplessness, the captain made no attempt to step out of her way - and so, the miniature ash storm clashed against his bulky, bonemould-clad form, as though against a rock; and its fury was instantly soothed.  
  
'Mo - Captain Veleth...' Dreyla greeted him breathlessly, a barely noticeable flush spreading across her cheeks.  
  
'Muthsera Alor,' he replied, his voice half-strangled.  
  
And then, cursing his awkwardness, he made an abrupt movement forward and forced the creased, frayed little paper heart into Dreyla's hands; not daring to look into her face, he strode off, pretending to be too busy yelling at one of his men for slouching on his watch.  
  
'Stand up straight, you son of a nix! It's the Temple you are guarding; show some respect!'  
  
The guard shot up into a perfectly straight line, pressing his arms against his sides; Veleth could almost see his helmet reddening with embarrassment. And through the fellow's flustered 'Sorry, serjo's and 'It won't happen again, serjo's, his twitching, sensitive elven ears picked up the sound of Dreyla drawing a sigh over his letter's contents - and then, after hovering for a few moments, walking off to Milore's.  
  
This was wrong. So very, very wrong. He should have led her aside, should have said something... He should have worked out a plan. A strategy. Aredhel could have helped him with that... And he had just let Lydia shepherd her off - to wherever they were headed with that delivery of theirs.  
  
  
***  
  
  
'Tel Mithryn,' Lydia muttered through her teeth, squinting at the outline of the gigantic mushroom that loomed ahead of them through the pinkish haze. 'By Shor, this place always gives me the creeps'.  
  
Aredhel made a small, groan-like sound, as she trudged reluctantly in her housecarl's wake. A proper Altmer would have reduced Lydia to a pile of ash long ago, for steering her along the road she did not wish to follow; but, as she had been told, again and again, by her strict, no-nonsense (and unbearably superiorly-bred) guardian back when she was a girl - she was not a proper Altmer. So she let her frustration break loose only when the two women paused for breath on a rocky ledge overlooking Neloth's tower.  
  
'Why are you dragging me here?' Aredhel asked, her voice trembling slightly. 'We should be looking for Ralis!'  
  
The Nord shook her head.  
  
'I am still not sure if your worries about Sedarys are justified, my Thane. His plight may not even be real; but Neloth is. Knowing that old nutcase, he has probably calculated the time when we are supposed to bring the briar heart to him by the second...'   
  
She slashed with her sword at a tangled heap gnarled trama roots to clear the way downhill; with a loud crackling noise, the wiry vegetation gave way, and sprawled limply at Lydia's feet, as though underlining her words.   
  
'And if we don't show up as soon as possible, you know he will have our heads... Probably turn them into something nasty, too... Shrink them like one of them witch doctors...'  
  
'That's just an old superstition,' Aredhel responded mechanically, entering what Lydia called her 'talking book mode'. 'It originated in Hammerfell, where people have distrusted mages since time immemorial...'  
  
She cut herself short, and reverted from a talking book back to her anxious self.  
  
'Oh, Divines - I am rambling again, aren't I? Listen - I know Captain Veleth said Ralis probably returned to Mournhold. But I can't help feeling that he is still on the island. I mean,' Aredhel took a deep breath of air, preparing to prove her point to Lydia. 'He wanted to conceal his face - he was ashamed of what had happened at the barrow! I think that's why he left Raven Rock; he could not bear the contact with the townsfolk, because of his guilt. Maybe he went to live in the wilderness, away from prying, judging eyes? Became a... a hermit?'  
  
The tips of Aredhel's ears flared up bright crimson, and she chewed nervously on her lower lip, picturing Ralis as a hermit. Sitting on some picturesque rock with his head bowed down, the red-gold rays of the setting sun playing in his wild hair, tracing the outline of his angular profile, sliding along that wonderfully crooked nose of his... And oh, oh - to complete the image, he would have to be dressed like a hermit, too! Wearing nothing but a light, threadbare grey robe, with a tear in the collar running all the way down to his midriff - mended carelessly with a bit of coarse string, which would still not be enough to fully conceal his mouthwatering chest...  
  
Oh Dibella, Lydia was right - Ralis really had ensnared her mind! But - but, painfully tight as it was, it was still such a perfectly enjoyable snare to be trapped in; and it would become even more so once they found him. Once she made sure he was safe. Once she showed to him that he did not have to be haunted by the past - once she offered him a future.  
  
Lydia gave her Thane a long and intent look, and then drew a sigh of resignation, like a parent giving in to the whim of a spoilt child.  
  
'Well then... Let us go look for Sedarys after we deliver the heart to Neloth - how does that sound, my Thane?'  
  
'Fair enough. We've almost arrived, after all,' Aredhel agreed - not too eagerly. 'Now all we have to do is slip away when the old mer sends Talvas to drag me off to his laboratory. I can't afford to stay behind and watch Neloth's experiments. Not when Ralis needs me'.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Master Neloth's formulas had proved correct. Soon after the subject was sent off for a bath, Talvas went to check the scrying spells (a duty he was exceedingly proud of) - and they revealed two familiar figures approaching the tower. The girl and her housecarl were returning with the briar heart.  
  
As soon as his apprentice, breathless and blubbering as always, came rushing in with the announcement, the wizard, who had started meditating (or decided to have a nap with his eyes open; Talvas could never be sure), immediately sprang into action.   
  
He began his preparations by throwing his arm into the air and snapping his fingers - which made bright greenish-blue glow flood the tower's upper floor. Then, in what must have been no more than half a minute, he swept through his laboratory, his beard ruffling with excitement, the sleeves of his robe flapping about like the wings of some red-and-gold tropical bird - clearing the space on the table where the subject would lie down, and picking up long, oddly-shaped, gleaming instruments (for all the countless times Talvas had assisted his mentor, he still did not know the purpose of about half of those hooks and needles and miniature saws, and Mephala knows what else), lifting them to his eyes and checking if everything was in order.   
  
And finally, he blocked the path of Drovas the steward as he returned from the bathroom to report that the subject would be ready any moment now; once the poor, unsuspecting fellow finished talking, the wizard thrust forward his clenched fist, unclasping his fingers inches away from the steward's face; the tips of his fingernails pulsed with a faint glow, the colour of the pale-blue sky in the morning as the last star fades away. This glow swelled and flowed, weaving itself into thin, silky threads, which reached forward like ghostly ivy tendrils, and crawled across the steward's body, locking their firm grip round his throat and clothing his feet into a second, smoky, see-through pair of boots over the ones he was already wearing.  
  
'That should do it,' Master Neloth declared eventually, as the blue threads of magic completely separated themselves from his fingers, remaining firmly glued to the flabbergasted Drovas. 'A good muffling spell will keep you from making any bothersome noises when you bring me my tea during the operation'.  
  
The hapless mer rounded his eyes, trying to squeeze some sort of anxious question out of himself.  
  
The wizard flicked his hand casually through the air.  
  
'Oh, do not worry,' he said, with an ever so slight trace of exasperation in his voice. 'It will wear off. Eventually. Theoretically. I will be using it on you, too, once you pick up the heart,' he added, swirling on his heels abruptly to face Talvas. 'And on the girl, of course. She always asks far too many questions. Now, off you go. Down to the bottom level. Meet them, take the heart off their hands - and don't forget to tell the little Altmer to stay behind. She is a welcome audience - when she keeps her mouth shut'.  
  
  
It was quite customary for Talvas to greet Aredhel with an invitation to come and watch Master Neloth at work (an offer she would almost always accept, while the housecarl would quietly excuse herself and slide off into the background). The old wizard revelled in the attention, the Altmer revelled in the atmosphere of his laboratory, and the apprentice revelled in the thought that, should something go wrong, it would not be him that would receive a splash of piping-hot canis root tea in the face. But this time, for some reason or other, Aredhel seemed completely indifferent towards what was going on the tower's upper level.  
  
'It is very kind of Master Neloth to extend his hospitality to me,' she said quietly as she lifted one knee into the air and rested her satchel on it, preparing to search inside for the briar heart. 'But I really can't stay. Not today. I am just...' she paused, her fingers hovering over the metal clasp that kept her satchel from bursting open and scattering around a shower of books, maps, alchemical ingredients, trophy weapons and dragon bones. 'I am not in the right mood'.  
  
'Oh,' Talvas sounded a little disappointed - now he had no-one to shield him from his mentor's wrath if, say, the shadow he cast on the operation table turned out too dense. 'I guess I... I will just take the heart then...'  
  
'Here you go'.  
  
With a strained thrust of her hand, Aredhel freed the large, hard, thorny lump from underneath a heap of frayed, yellowish scrolls, and, straightening herself up, laid it onto the Dunmer's palm. He started a little as he felt the briar heart pulse in his grasp; it was warm to the touch, and the tips of its curving thorns shimmered with a pale-gold glow; Talvas was not quite certain whether it came from Forsworn magic, or from the spell Master Neloth had taught Aredhel so she could preserve her memories of extracting the heart, for the wizard to study before implanting the stone.  
  
'Good luck with your experiment,' the Altmer said as she turned to leave the tower, giving Talvas a farewell smile over her shoulder - a rather forced smile, it seemed to him; faint like a wisp of smoke that melts away into the empty darkness when you blow out a candle... far too faint to conceal the deep sadness that was clouding Aredhel's gold-and-green eyes. Something was troubling her - but Talvas dared not ask her what it was. If he wasted his time on talking to Aredhel, and did not bring the briar heart to Master Neloth straight away - who was to know what the wizard would do to his tongue apart from merely silencing it with a Muffle spell...  
  
So all he did was acknowledge Aredhel's good luck wishes with a grateful nod; afterwards, he turned his back on her and Lydia, and stepped into the swirling blue torrent of levitation magic, letting it carry him upwards, to where his mentor was pacing impatiently to and fro, eager to get his hands on the briar heart and on the precious memories that would help him reproduce the ancient techniques of the Forsworn. With or without Aredhel - they were still going to operate.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Drovas must have sent several sponges to an early grave while rubbing all the caked ash and dried-up blood off the subject. When the specimen finally stumbled into the laboratory, shivering slightly, curling up his bare toes when his soles touched the floor, and holding awkwardly at his loincloth with one hand (following Neloth's instructions, the steward had disposed of those horrid grimy rags the subject had shown up in) - why, he looked so wonderfully, impeccably clean. His grey flesh even seemed to glow, reflecting the cold, crisp magelight. Perfect. Now Neloth did not have to worry about specs of filth getting on his instruments.   
  
'What - what do I do now?' the subject asked hoarsely, scratching one foot against another instinctively and gazing round him with not a tiniest spark of interest livening up his drawn face.   
  
The wizard motioned towards the operation table.  
  
'You lie down here and wait. We shall begin as soon as I finish with the briar heart'.  
  
'As you say, sera'.  
  
The subject lowered himself onto the cleared wooden surface, stretched his legs, folded his arms under his head, and let his heavy eyelids slide down, over his dimmed, weary red eyes - like someone preparing for a well-deserved rest after an excruciatingly long day of toil.  
  
Neloth cracked his fingers, his lips forming a curious shape which, for convenience's sake, the inhabitants of Tel Mythryn called his 'smile' - and made good on his promise to cast a muffling spell on Talvas. After the glowing blue threads wove round the apprentice's boots, silencing the sound of his footsteps, and closed in a billowing, shimmering collar round his throat, trapping his voice within, the wizard stroked his beard, eyes narrowed in satisfaction, and turned around to repeat the procedure with the subject. He was going to sedate him, of course - but still, he needed his utmost concentration for this delicate experiment, and he simply could not take any chances. Screams were most annoying.  
  
The subject watched Neloth's spell-casting from beneath his eyelashes, but did not twitch as muscle when the see-through tendrils started creeping along his body. Before the magic sealed his lips, he had time to breathe out a single, sigh-like word, which made a tiny chill race, scrib-like, up Talvas' spine,  
  
'Soon'.  
  
With the laboratory finally plunged into precious, blissful silence, Neloth set to work on the briar heart. Slowly, carefully, he cupped his fingers round it and lifted it from his apprentice's outstretched palm, the golden shimmer of the thorns floating, reflected, in the sea of deep crimson, almost turning his pupils invisible. The longer he held it in his grasp, the brighter the briar heart glowed - till its light shot upwards through Neloth's fingers, in four long beams, reaching towards the laboratory's ceiling. Narrow at the base, where the wizard's fist clenched tighter and tighter round the briar heart, these rays of light gradually began to grow broader at the top, till they all merged together into a large square of burning golden light, so bright that even the subject stirred on the table and lifted himself on one elbow, his eyes now wide-open.  
  
'It seems to be working so far,' Neloth muttered to himself, squinting at the glowing shape that floated in mid-air in front of him. He knew that neither Talvas, nor the subject could respond to anything his said - but he kept talking nonetheless. The sound of his own voice was too mesmerizing to resist. 'Let us see if the girl has actually managed to record those memories. Aha! It appears she has!'  
  
One by one, large dark shapes started gliding across the glowing square - like outlines of characters in a shadow play. At first, they were nothing but silhouettes, all the same shade of dull grey, with no discernible details; but then, a few moments after they appeared, their colouring started to grow darker in some places and lighter in others, tracing and sculpting the figures' features, just as it happens when an artist is drawing something with charcoal. The shapes had now become recognizable - tall, jagged rocks, rising on both sides of a steep, winding path, with gnarled wild juniper bushes clinging on to them, their frail branches buttered by violent gusts of wind. And two women, making their way from one edge of the golden canvas to another. Aredhel and Lydia - the former striding in the lead, glancing around in that usual excited way of hers, as though the whole world were a huge open book, an endless adventure novel that she was immersed in; and the latter stepping more cautiously, her sword drawn and her eyes darting around suspiciously beneath a single straight line of knitted eyebrows.  
  
'Third person view, eh?' Neloth scratched his chin thoughtfully, as best he could while still holding  the heart. 'The girl must have merged her memories with the Nord's to get a more detached perspective... Good. I did tell her to keep this as objective and impersonal as possible. Let us hope she did not get distracted along the way'.  
  
In the meanwhile, after walking a few steps past the square's center, the dark, wispy likenesses of the Altmer and her housecarl paused, as though listening intently to some noise that attracted their attention. And then, suddenly, in a sweeping whirl of black, a third figure leapt up to them. A short, lithe man (human, most likely), wrapped in a most hideous assortment of mangy beast pelts, with an antlered mask concealing his face. On the left side of his chest, where his heart was supposed to be, there was a deep, mangled gash, crisscrossed by narrow strips of what looked like leather - which held in place a pulsing cluster of dark, sharp thorns. Neloth stiffened in anticipation, tapping the tips of his free hand's fingers against the edge of the operation table. The Forsworn Briarheart was approaching.  
  
Yes, oh yes... The crucial moment was so close... The moment when he would finally make a breakthrough in his research. The moment when he would be able to successfully implant the heart stone into the subject's chest, borrowing the methods of ancient Reach magic.   
  
Barely able to suppress a most undignified joyful squeal, which did not at all befit a Telvanni Councilor, Neloth stood on tiptoe, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on the golden square and the charcoal figures that danced across it, ready to charge at one another and clash in bloody battle. There - there it was... The Briarheart and Aredhel lighting up their spells... Lydia lifting her shield arm and flexing her fingers round her sword's hilt... Any second now, the Reachman would fall under the two women's combined attack - and the Altmer would start extracting his heart...  
  
The picture froze when Lydia had already lifted her blade, the Briarheart had opened his mouth wide for a battle cry, and Aredhel had set loose an ash-shaded burst of magic - and after hovering for a moment or so, the outlines of the three adversaries vanished, dissolving into a vague, swirling black cloud. Neloth's eyes flashed - but before his rage could burst through in an eruption of seething, lava-like words, the cloud began to twist itself into a new silhouette. In a few seconds, the blank canvas was filled with another drawing. A drawing that did not make any sense.  
  
It was his subject - there was no mistake about it. There could not possibly be two mer with exactly the same hooked noses and wild hair wandering around Nirn during the same era. Only in this recreated memory, the subject was not the least bit as worn out and submissive as he was now. He looked - ah, damn it, for all his extensive knowledge of arcane lore, this one word kept escaping Neloth's memory... Ah, yes. Happy. He looked happy. With his teeth flashing in a radiant, pearly grin (well, as pearly it could get in this grey-scale colour scheme); his eyes narrowed to tiny crescents, sparkling mischievously – and his arms folded on his chest in a way that reflected calm, content self-assurance... Perhaps with a hint at something more, something that Neloth could understand much, much better when he was younger.  
  
And the blasted image refused to go away! The subject's twin from the past had completely usurped the girl's memories - he just floated there, bobbing up and down, as though teasing the wizard - not letting him see his precious briar heart necropsy.  
  
Neloth's chest heaved. Now was the perfect time to unleash that eruption.  
  
'What is the meaning of this?!' he cawed shrilly, looming over the subject so that the tips of their noses almost touched. 'What are _you_ doing in the memories that Aredhel collected for me?! Are you trying to sabotage my work?!'  
  
The last word exploded into a small fountain of spittle that flew right into the subject's face. The insolent wretch completely ignored it, though - he did not even look at Neloth. He gazed upwards, over the wizard's shoulder, to where the imprint of his past self still swirled against the golden light; his breathing, though inaudible thanks to Neloth's magic, was fast and strained - judging by the jerking movements of his chest and the painful spasms rippling along his neck underneath his skin - and his fingers were clawing at the flesh over his heart.   
  
'Well?!' Neloth persisted, sinking his nails into the subjects shoulder and forcing him to look him in the face. 'Answer me! Oh, right...' the furious flame in his eyes died down a little. 'The spell... I forgot. I am going to undo it  - and then...' the crimson blaze flared up with a renewed force. 'Then you will tell me precisely what you are plotting!'  
  
Neloth loosened his grip on the subject, preparing to remove the magical muffling bonds - but before he could do it, the specimen pushed him aside and, tumbling off the table, bolted out of the laboratory towards the levitation shaft… completely ignoring the fact that his loincloth was dangerously close to sliding off.


	4. Chapter 4

Not a sound, not a splash came when he swept along the shore line, the pale-white, wispy foam frothing and hissing round his feet and prickling his skin as tiny bubbles crawled down the sharp slope of his bare ankle bones and then popped away into nothingness. He pressed forward blindly, without stopping, without looking back at the misty outline of the great mushroom tower; and eventually, his heart began to race faster and faster, desperate to keep pumping life force into his burning, aching legs; it thrashed against his ribs, swelling, ever swelling, turning into a gigantic, flaming orb which scorched his chest from the inside and sent waves of unbearable, overpowering heat further upwards, into his throat...   
  
After a while, the burning sensation became so intense that he could barely breathe - but still, no sound escaped his parted lips as he slowed down and gripped at his bare chest, streams of sweat gluing his arms to the sides of his body. There was no choking, no raspy panting - even though he was folding himself in two and drinking in the salty air in greedy, half-strangled gasps. The muffling spell still had a firm hold over him, and there was no telling if his voice would ever return again. But at the moment, he did not give it much thought. All that mattered was getting away from Tel Mythryn - as far away as possible, lest that old wizard try to drag him back to the operating table - and finding Aredhel.   
  
Aredhel... The moment he saw that image of his former self, filling her thoughts, overshadowing everything else - the thick, stifling haze that had been obscuring his world was gone. He was no longer willing to resign to his fate, no longer willing to silence the beating of his heart. Because now he knew that he had been wrong about Aredhel.   
  
After all that had happened, all that he had done, she still kept him in her memories. She still cared for him. And that knowledge, that precious, cherished knowledge, soothed the guilty ache eating at his soul - soothed it more, perhaps, than any enchanted stone implant would have done. Suddenly, for the first time in an eternity, he had something to live for once again.  
  
Ralis straightened up, his head swimming slightly, catching his breath and bracing himself for another long, excruciating run - and froze just as he was, his hands reaching for his knees, his loincloth hopelessly askew, staring blankly straight ahead, into the reddish-grey wilderness, where two small figures sat on a mound of hardened ash, waving their hands in the air, apparently arguing about something. Two women, a human and an elf, the former clad in steel armour, and the latter wearing a hooded mage robe. He recognized them, despite the distance - there could be no other similar pair of wanderers roaming along the rugged coast of Solstheim. Lydia and Aredhel - by the gods, they were here... If he just mustered all his remaining strength, if he made one final dash through the wilds - he would catch up with them. With her.   
  
Smiling a happy, giddy smile, Ralis staggered forward, and the moment he did, a surge of sharp pain made him clutch his left side and bend down again. He was still catastrophically out of stamina (as adventurers usually put it) - and in the meanwhile, the two women seemed to have reached an agreement and were getting to their feet. He would not be able to cover the distance between them before they left - he had to stall them somehow... To draw their attention.   
  
Filling his lungs with air - a dense mixture of brine and ash - he stood on tiptoe and struggled to shape his lips into a short, desperate word.  
  
'Aredhel!'   
  
The call rang perfectly clear inside his mind - but the serene silence of the sea shore was broken only by the far-off cries of the hungry terns, and by the sighing of the waves as they caressed the wet sand and then drew back again.  
  
His heart sinking, he tried once more,  
  
'Aredhel! It's me - Ralis! Aredhel!'  
  
He strained his throat till tears came into his eyes and his chest grew numb with pain - but still, no sound escaped his twisted, quivering lips.  
  
'Aredhel!' his voice roared in a frenzy, trapped somewhere deep inside his body - rattling the invisible bars of its magical cage... all in vain. 'Aredhel! Don't go! I... I love you! I have always loved you!'  
  
Silence. Merciless, impenetrable silence. Forcing itself down his throat, strangling him, crushing him underneath its colossal weight, like a tiny, miserable bug. For, after all, that was all he was. Nothing but a bug, squirming helplessly in the sand, tearing himself apart with screams that no-one could hear - while out there, amid the frozen grey waves of ash, so close and yet so impossibly far away, Lydia and Aredhel were slowly heading deeper inland, their backs turned towards him.  
  
'A... Aredhel... Come back...' he groaned one last time - and then, when this meek, almost child-like plea also remained unheard, he sank to his knees and, wrapping his arms round his head, huddled himself into a small, naked, shivering lump - trapped in a vast, boundless world of silence, so terribly, terribly alone... Except that he wasn't.   
  
Someone was standing right over him - someone... or something. He could sense its eyes, boring into him with bestial fury; he could hear its breath, low and guttural, gargling somewhere at the back of the creature's throat; he could feel whiffs of warm, rank breath coming from it - breath that smelled of raw flesh and scorching blood... a smell that he would not soon forget. Unchaining his fingers and pressing his palms against the hard, sharp sand, he lifted his head - and stared straight at the strange being that had crept up to him while he was so consumed by his misery that it did not even need magic like Neloth's to remain unnoticed.  
  
It looked like a man - a tall, strong Nord in his prime, with long, unkempt dirty-blonde hair and beard and almost as little clothing as Ralis himself... Only it was not quite a man; Ralis had figured as much after hearing that heavy breathing and smelling the blood - and now he could see that the Nord's fingers ended in long, hard, curved claws, and his (or its?) eyes were deep and black, with no visible whites, like a wild animal's. The manbeast sniffed at the air, his intent gaze registering Ralis' every movement; and when the Dunmer cautiously attempted to get up and back away, he snarled angrily, showing the tips of his teeth - no, his fangs, massive, yellowish in colour, and far too long for a human. A tiny lump slid up and down Ralis' throat in an inaudible gulp - and just as it did, the creature lurched forward - and in a few fleeting, nightmarish seconds, revealed its true self.  
  
Before the hapless Dunmer knew it, the man-like figure dissolved, as though it were an unwanted sketch erased by some unseen artist's hand - and new outlines began appearing over it; dark, bold, horrifying. The being that towered over him, front paws clawing at the air, blood-red maw seeping with sticky drool, now resembled a large brown bear, with its head resting against thick folds of a furry mane and its eyes glinting hungrily beneath bulging brow ridges. And yet again, it was not quite like a bear; the beast seemed... disfigured somehow, too monstrous, too dark to be a creature of the wooded wilds - as though tainted by powerful evil magic.  
  
But, of course, Ralis was not really in a fitting position to ruminate on the monster's nature - not when it was about to bring down its paws and maul him to shreds. Whirling into an upright position, he turned and broke into a run a again, this time heading back towards Tel Mythryn. But his weary legs, with bones that hummed like a raging flame, could not carry him far. After trudging a couple of feet along the tide line, he collapsed, face down, his mouth instantly filling with salty, tingling sea foam - and his bare skin covering with a gnarled layer of goose bumps, hard as an Argonian's scales, as he felt a single, scalding drop of saliva land on his back. Then, there was a loud, feral grunt, a forceful push - and the entire world shattered, and its razor sharp shard ripped through his skin, ploughing deep, jagged, crimson gulleys. The pain was overwhelming, like a torrent of seething lava that had once leveled entire settlements on the isle of Vvardenfell, reducing Dunmeri homes to meagre lumps of caked ash; the pain drowned out all reason, leaving his mind raw and bleeding and blank - save for one thought.  
  
 _'So that's what it was like... When I killed those people...'_  
  
  
***  
  
'After him, you nincompoop!' Master Neloth had shrieked, his face twisted in livid rage. 'Don't just stand there with that broom! Who told you to get the broom anyway?! Wait, I think I did... Well, it's about time you put it down! Go now - shoo, shoo! Don't let the subject get away!'  
  
And off Talvas had trotted obediently, descending down the elevation shaft and whizzing out onto the shore. To his dismay (ah, how tiny his heart felt when it curled up in the pit of his stomach!) the wild-haired Dunmer was nowhere to be seen.   
  
And no wonder. Master Neloth had been so infuriated by the subject's desperate dash for freedom that he had spent several minutes running around his laboratory, madly shooting lightning bolts in all directions; and Talvas and Drovas had had to clean up the mess - right after the wizard had run out of magicka and stopped ransacking the tower's upper level, for Master Neloth could not abide the sight of broken glass phials and scattered books littering the floor (and it did not matter to him that it was he who had wrought this havoc in the first place; not that either the steward or the apprentice could have hinted at it anyway, their voices being muffled). This had given the subject quite a head start, and by the time it had finally occurred to Neloth that Talvas could go and fetch him, the coast was completely deserted - save for a winding, thread-like trail of prints left in the sand by a pair of bare feet, their dark contours slowly melting away as the waves licked at the tracks over and over again, like a cone of fruit-scented ice melts away when licked by a child. But it was something to go on, at least; his head bent down like a bloodhound's, the young Dunmer rushed along the shore, not tearing his gaze away from the footprints, which dissolved beneath a veil of foam right before his eyes.  
  
He stumbled to a halt only when he heard a strange slurping noise that could not be the lapping of the tide. Flaring up a fire spell just in case, Talvas looked up from the tracks - and shuddered all over.  
  
He had heard rumours of the things roaming about the island, mostly on its snowy, ice-capped side, where the wild Nords had their settlements; and sometimes, as he lay in bed late at night, he thought he could hear their growls carried by the ashen winds (though it could have just been his stomach, as Master Neloth would often involve his apprentice's supper in his experiments, usually in ways that rendered it completely inedible)... And now, there it was, right in front of him - one of Hircine's creations, in the flesh (fur-covered and very smelly flesh, he might add). A werebear. Busily tearing at something grey and squirming and apparently, still alive.  
  
Mesmerized, benumbed by the sight of the creature's savage feast, Talvas kept on watching, even though the sight of blood streaming down those heavy jaws made him retch, and his common sense was screeching for him to get the Oblivion out of here, before the werebear noticed that a helping of dessert had arrived. But this was just as enthralling as Master Neloth dissecting some unfortunate critter to find out exactly why it had not survived after he had made it sprout tentacles out of its stomach. He wanted to look away, he really did - but he could not.   
  
Talvas did recover a little from his dazed paralysis, however - when he was struck by a sudden realization. The creature's victim was thrashing madly in its clawed grasp, and struggling to break free, and kicking his legs (those had to be a man's legs, a male Dunmer's, strong, wiry, and hairy) in the air whenever the werebear's teeth slashed at him like a Redguard's scimitars... but he did not utter a single sound, not as much as a groan or a whimper of pain. It seemed - why, it seemed that Talvas had found the subject.   
  
Shutting his eyes tightly and trying not to think about the size of the werebear's claws, the apprentice wizard lifted his fiery orb high into the air and then released it. Like a shooting star, the spell swooshed through the air and locked its embrace round the creature's body. The werebear reeled, with a shattering, inhuman screech of pain - and Talvas mirrored the beast's movement, as the smell of singed fur stung his nostrils. The stench was so overwhelming that the young Dunmer almost missed a chance to shoot another fire ball as the werebear released its victim, tossing the poor wretch aside into the water, and stomped up to the apprentice wizard and dug the claws of its hind legs deep into thd sand, preparing to pounce.   
  
If Talvas had not been put under a muffling spell, he would have let out a loud yeep of sheer terror - but all he could do was open his mouth widely, his eyes bulging like ruby beads. And just as the great mountain of fur hurled itself at him, preparing to crush his bones, he charged up the fire ball once more, clawing desperately at the creature's snout. The werebear roared in agony, showering Talvas with drool and bloodied froth, and, falling back, limped away from the Dunmer, leaving a broad, wet, crimson ribbon trailing behind it in the sand.   
  
Talvas watched it withdraw, shivering in fear. What if - what if the thing regained its strength, like trolls do, and decided to attack him again? He could not allow that! With yet another silent yeep, he cast a spell for the third time; only now he chose another element over fire. As the palm of his hand glinted bright, gem-like blue and white, like fresh, pristine snow in the dazzling rays of the winter sun, a long, glowing thorn began to grow right out of its middle, working its way through Talvas' skin without appearing to harm him, its sharp tip pointing at the back of the werebear's neck.   
  
When the thorn grew almost as long as the Dunmer's forearm, he flexed his fingers, making it separate itself from his hand and zoom through the air, scattering tiny snowflakes in its wake - and then, plunge deep into the beast's fur, as though some unseen hammer drove it through the creature's flesh. Talvas cringed and looked away when he heard the ripe squelch of the ice shard entering the werebear's throat, and the beast's rasping last breath - and when he finally dared to turn his head, he saw a young Nord in tattered sacking rags the colour of marshland silt... lying motionless in a pool of blood that was both his and the monster's.   
  
Leaving it to the Three to make sure that the werebear was dead, Talvas whipped around on his heels and waddled through the drowsy waves to drag the subject back ashore. The poor blighter was still breathing, though life was rapidly draining out of him in dense, dark streams of blood that cascaded out of his mangled wounds and melted into a billowing red cloak that rippled in the water all around him.  
  
Talvas knew a little Restoration - he had had to learn at least the most basic spells of that school, what with constantly being hit by heavy objects, thrown from great heights or set on fire. So as soon as he pulled the subject's limp, sack-like body onto firm ground (by the gods, that fellow was heavy!), he squatted down at his side and passed his hand back and forth along his chest and stomach. But other than making the subject's short, curling body hair stand on end, Talvas' magic did little else. The spell's golden, tingling rays dissolved before they could penetrate the gaping dark-red gashes in the hapless wretch's flesh, and they remained unclosed, crisscrossing the heaving, sweating grey like fiery rivers bursting through the ashen soil of Morrowind.  
  
Talvas kept casting - with tearful, almost piteous obstinacy, cursing noiselessly, damning his stupid, worthless spell to Oblivion. And not only because he dreaded his mentor's wrath, which would surely turn his very bones to cinders, should he lose the subject. He owed that strange redhead his life - the fellow had save him from ash spawn; and his thought made Talvas' heart ache with guilt as, try after fruitless try, the honeyed glow of his healing magic faded away, and the subject looked up at him with his dim, feverish eyes, slowly tearing through the ruby crust that caked his lips together, and mouthed something that the spell prevented the younger Dunmer from hearing...  
  
When, after yet another failed attempt to treat the subject's wounds, the spell's light went out, the air round Talvas suddenly grew far darker than it had been when he began his casting. The apprentice wizard shrank his head into his shoulders and, his innards throbbing painfully with apprehension, slanted his eyes to see what was going on. It seemed that a shadow had fallen over the two of them - a large, menacing shadow that had wings...  
  
  
***  
  
  
'Remember our plan, Lydia,' Aredhel said, tearing herself out of the tight, prickly clutches of a particularly ill-meaning scathecraw. 'We head back to the Bulwark and start combing the island from there. I don't want to miss any slightest trace of Ralis' presence. We must find him, at any cost!'  
  
'Begging your pardon, my Thane,' the housecarl cut in, making an odd sneeze-like sound into her fist and then pointing at the heavy, blood-tinted clouds over their heads.   
  
The Altmer clicked her tongue in frustration and squinted at the sky. Gliding through the dark, smoke-like swirls, cleaving them in half like a jagged, silvery blade, there was a dragon; it was heading towards Tel Mythryn, spreading its wings across the sky to catch the warm currents of ashen air.  
  
'Oh no,' Aredhel shook her head fiercely. 'Oh no, no! We are not coming after it! I shall not waste any more time on distractions!'  
  
Lydia knitted her eyebrows in concern. This venomous flash of green in her Thane's eyes, this hardened outline of her jaw, this mounting irritation in her voice - it was all so unlike her... She was beginning to sound like a typical High Elf - Shor's bones, what was that Dunmer doing to her?!  
  
'But my Thane - ' the worthy Nord protested falteringly. 'Are you not honour-bound to slay these abominations? As Dragonborn?'  
  
Aredhel threw her arms up into the air with a faint groan.  
  
'What for?! So Miraak can have another soul? I am not going on a wild lizad chase that will only make the enemy of this island more powerful!'  
  
'It will be flying over Tel Mythryn soon,' Lydia said quietly, reaching out towards her Thane in a hope that the touch of her fingertips, brushing against her elbow, would make the Altmer calm down... But instead, Aredhel shook her off.  
  
'I think old Neloth can handle a dragon. If I remember correctly, he wanted one as a test subject'.  
  
'But what about the others?' the Nord persisted. 'You know Master Neloth only cares for himself. He will not lift a finger to protect his household - he will sit back and drink his tea and watch that monster carry them all off in its jaws...'  
  
Aredhel swallowed and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand; the gesture knocked back her robe's hood, revealing her untidy pigtails, which always gave her a girlish look that Lydia found strangely endearing. And with that look, the familiar, Aredhel-like expression returned to her face, and the infuriated Aldmeri sorceress was gone.  
  
'Oh, Lydia, you are right,' she squeaked, biting into her thumbnail. 'You are always right... I was being awfully selfish - I let my wish to find Ralis blind me... Of course, we will chase down that dragon and make sure everyone in the tower is okay. It's the right thing to do'.  
  
Side by side, the two women raced back towards the coast, Lydia reaching for her bow and Aredhel clenching and unclenching her fingers round an orb of purplish light that, at her command, would unfold into a bound weapon of her own, complete with a quiverful of arrows, which, despite their ghostly form, were able to pierce rock-hard dragon scales with just as much force as the Nord's real arrows (hand-crafted b her Thane out of an enormous metal strut she had dragged on her back out of a Dwarven ruin; the process had involved many a squeal of delight, for the Altmer revelled in studying every trade possible).  
  
Contrary to Lydia's expectations, the dragon landed quite far from Tel Mythryn, thudding down to the ground in a whirl of ashen dust, whipping at the ground with its massive tail, and snapping at something that was beyond the two adventurers' field of view. The sharp sound made by the creature's jaws was followed by a terrified whimper - and then, by a startled exclamation,  
  
'Oh my, my voice is back! Help! Help! Mage out of magicka and in need of assistance!'  
  
The two women exchanged wide-eyed, anxious looks, recognizing the poor mage in need as Talvas Fathryon, Master Neloth's long-suffering apprentice. With a small gasp, Aredhel quickened her pace and clambering down the cliffside, rivulets of tiny stones rustling down from beneath her boots; when she drew so close to the dragon she could grab it by the tail - well, she did exactly that, gripping at the sharp scales with her free hand and pulling with all her might, to draw the beast's attention. Lydia buried her face in her hand - sometimes her Thane resorted to most unheroic methods.  
  
Huffing angrily through its nostrils, the dragon turned away from Talvas. Much to the adventurers' relief, there were no traces of blood on its snout - Talvas must have dodged its ravenous jaws. Twisting its neck backwards so that its burning yellow eyes became level with Aredhel's, and its smoky breath washed over her, almost making her lose balance, the great winged creature scrutinized the tiny mortals that had dared to interrupt it in such an undignified manner. It even bared its fangs slightly, as though sneering in contempt; Lydia had often noticed dragons regarding the two-legged, wingless 'joor' with that... expression, for lack of a better word (Aredhel had once told her it reminded her of 'Uncle Lem-Lem', the snooty Thalmor Justiciar in Markarth, who, as it turned out, had been her childhood guardian... but that was quite a different story).   
  
Clearing her throat, her eyes fixed on the dragon, Aredhel shook her head and said sternly, her voice somehow growing deeper, and every word making the ashen ground rumble, as though something beneath its surface was stirring drowsily, about to awaken,  
  
'Paak... Krif joor kos folaas. Krif joor kos pahlok. Joor kos sahlo. Krif gein voth Dovah sos!'   
  
[Shame... To fight the mortal is wrong. To fight the mortal is arrogance. The mortal is weak. Fight one with Dragon blood!]  
  
Lydia had heard her Thane give this little speech on several occasions, mostly when they chanced upon a dragon laying waste to a town or village. In her understanding, it meant something along the lines of, 'Go pick on someone your own size!' - because after that, the beast always abandoned whatever straw roof it was chewing off, or whatever guardsman it was tearing apart, and switched to attacking Aredhel.  
  
So it happened this time as well. For a few seconds, the dragon looked very puzzled, just as the rest of its kind did when they heard the Altmer speaking their language (which she took great pride in learning, sometimes spending whole days whispering with Master Arngeir about something in that thunder-like, growling tongue... gossiping about Lydia, no doubt). And then, with a sweep of its wings that lashed at the two women like a gust of winter wind, the beast soared up into the air and opened its mouth, a small flame flickering somewhere within its throat. Before it could burst through, however, Aredhel drew her bound bow and took aim.  
  
Lydia's Thane was a fast learner; it seemed that only yesterday she would dance clumsily around Jorvaskr's courtyard, mimicking the precise, fluid movements of Aela the Huntress, and hitting just about everything - pots and plates on the outdoor table, carved wooden pillars, the backside of Vilkas's greaves - except for that glaring red target drawn on the straw dummy's head. And now, her arrow struck the exposed, blood-red inside of the dragon's maw, where the flesh was soft and unprotected by hardened scales. With a half-strangled gargle, the beast plummeted down into the sea, making jets of water cascade all over Lydia, and Aredhel, and the quivering, cowering Talvas, who was watching the struggle a little way off along the coast... and over someone else, another Dunmer, almost completely naked, who lay on his back next to where the apprentice wizard was crouching, one limp hand resting on his chest, which was all raw and red, with barely an inch of smooth skin separating broad, gaping wounds... A Dunmer that had a long, hooked nose and a mane of silver-streaked red hair.   
  
When Aredhel caught sight of him, her face drained of all colour and she made a weak grasping movement with her fingers, as though seeking support in thin air. Sheathing her spell, she rushed over to the wounded Dunmer, completely forgetting about the dragon, which lay on its back, churning the sea water with its wings.  
  
It was up to Lydia to finish the thing off; switching from her bow back to her blade, she crept up to the thrashing beast, wincing and tossing her head from side to side as the stinging droplets of salty water got into her eyes - trying to make out a vulnerable spot amid that rolling, tossing mass of scales. Finally, the Nord managed to set her eyes on the target - a pale streak of skin on the dragon's underbelly, where the layer of scales did not seem as thick. Drawing a deep breath, as though before a dive (and a dive it would be, for the dragon kept on splashing in the water, raising tall waves and cloaking itself in a sparkling watery dust), she plunged forward, a tiny rainbow dancing off the edge of her sword - and sank the steel deep into the greyish-green dragon hide. The blade entered the beast's flesh and remained trapped within it, so that Lydia had to let go of the hilt and leap back before the dying dragon pulled all its bulk over her. Legs wide apart like a sailor, catching her breath in short, shrill wheezes, the Nord watched the heaving brew of brine and blood slowly grow calmer, as the dragon rolled to one side and lay quite still, gentle little waves rubbing, Khajiit-like, against the bit of metal that was jutting out of its body.  
  
Her Thane did never joined her - not even when the great beast's skin began to peel off and soar to the sky in large, soft flakes, leaving nothing but gleaming white bones behind, not a sliver of flesh for the fish to feed on. Nor did she come to her side when a ghostly figure in a repulsive tentacled mask appeared next to the exposed carcass and stretched its hands forward, its crooked fingers kneading through the threads of light that were streaming towards it from the slain beast's chest - or when the figure's echoing voice rang over the shore, deriding the Dragonborn and her companion...  
  
No, the Thane was too busy to come up with a fitting answer to Miraak's mockery; too busy to help Lydia grope through the muddy water in search for her sword. She was kneeling next to Neloth's runaway test subject, caressing his bleeding flesh with her glowing hands, doing what Talvas had failed to do. Her Restoration spell was stronger, much stronger - in a matter of minutes, while somewhere in the background, Miraak's image vanished, and Lydia finally found her blade, stuck in a tuft of slimy green seaweed - the torn flesh mended, and the Dunmer gradually regained consciousness.   
  
The first word that he spoke, gripping at Aredhel's hands with the frenzied force of a drowning man and gaping up at her with a gleeful, almost manic smile, was her name, which he repeated over and over, choking, spluttering, going drunk with the sound of his newly found voice,  
  
'Aredhel... Aredhel... Aredhel... You are really here... This is not a dream... Oh, Aredhel... I missed you so much...'  
  
'I missed you too, Ralis...' she whispered through a tender smile, pulling him into a sitting position and gazing into his face with an odd, thirsty look of someone who sees a cool, merry little spring after wandering for many days in a sun-scorched desert. 'After learning how... our last adventure had affected you, I feared the worst. Tell me - what gave you these wounds?'  
  
She passed her fingers along the twisting scars that her spell had left in its wake - for now healing magic, no matter how powerful, would have been able to erase markings like those without a trace. She had meant to do this to emphasize her words - but quite in spite of herself, found her fingers lingering in places, petting and stroking the Dunmer's skin in a way that made him let out a prolonged, blissful sigh.  
  
'Some kind of manbeast,' he murmured, half-closing his eyes in pleasure. 'One moment, he was a Nord, and the next, he turned into a bear and attacked me... Would have mauled me to a bloody pulp if the little wizard lad hadn't dealt with him... He should be lying around here somewhere - his fall was one of the last things I remember'.  
  
Aredhel craned her neck to look - quite in keeping with the Dunmer's cunning plan. Seizing the moment, he pressed his lips against the exposed golden flesh, shuddering from head to toe with the elation of tasting his Aredhel again.  
  
She jerked her head, trying to shake him off.  
  
'Please, Ralis - there is a man in the Skaal village who said his brother had fallen in with a pack of werebears. He asked me to look for him. I need to examine the body...'  
  
'You can do it later,' Ralis breathed, moving his wet, hungry mouth down to her collar bones.  
  
She frowned - in surprise rather than in anger.  
  
'Do you... Right here? Right now?'  
  
'Yes,' he drawled, tearing away from her neck and taking a gentle nibble at her ear. 'Yes, yes, yes...'  
  
She flushed at the thought how strange, how inappropriate all of this looked - them half-sitting, half-lying on the sea shore; Ralis, almost naked, crawling all over her, tasting every inch of her that he could reach, warming her skin with his breath, tickling her with his stubble... while somewhere out there, there was a dead werebear and gods knew what else...  
  
'Uhm, excuse me...' Talvas poked his head into the frame, making Ralis freeze with his hand dangerously close to creeping underneath Aredhel's robe. 'But what am I going to tell Master Neloth? You are the subject of his heart stone experiment, after all...'  
  
'You - what?!' Aredhel gasped, pushing Ralis away from her and gazing intently into his eyes. 'What on earth would make you agree to such a thing?! Do you know what heart stones do to people?!'  
  
'I did not care,' Ralis replied simply, turning away from her and staring down at his hands. 'After the barrow, I did not care about anything. Because I thought that - that no-one would ever love a monster like me... And without love... without your love - there was hardly any need for a heart, was there?'  
  
Aredhel's eyes rounded like a child's, welling up with tears.  
  
'You are not a monster,' she mouthed, drawing Ralis back towards her again. 'Not as long as you keep fighting the darkness that Azhidal let into your heart... And you know that I will always be there to help you. Now, Talvas,' she lifted her head and raised her voice to address the apprentice wizard. 'You can tell your master that you were attacked and that the subject was damaged beyond repair. This sounds like a story he would believe, doesn't it?'  
  
'Y-yes...' Talvas stammered, blushing a deep magenta as the two elves interlocked their bodies again and tumbled down to the sand (this time, Aredhel was doing most of the kissing). 'B-but...'  
  
'That's final,' Aredhel snapped in between licks at the side of Ralis' face. 'I am not getting him go'.  
  
Talvas had no choice but withdraw - right on time to save his fragile psyche, too; for Ralis had finally succeeded in worming his way beneath the Altmer's robe.  
  
By the gods - Lydia was going to go ballistic.


End file.
